Second Skin - Mason Black, Gun for Hire
by PestoMonkey
Summary: Character snapshot of Mason Black written for a contest on dA.


Mason's intricately tattooed biceps bulged as he set the heavy crate on the work table in the basement of his tattoo shop. He lifted the lid and pulled away the protective layer of foam packing, his steel-grey eyes inspecting the top layer of weapons critically. The toothpick lodged between his lips shifted from one side of his mouth to the other. Half a dozen brand new Karpov pistols rested inside, just begging for someone skilled enough to pop their cherries. He reverently lifted one from its foam nest, testing its weight and balance.

"How 'bout we take you for a spin, sweetness?"

He slipped a fresh thermal clip into the pistol's well that sat just in front of the trigger, enjoying the satisfying click it made once it was secured inside the gun, then he turned, tapping at his omni-tool as he strolled to the back of the room. Twin rows of recessed lights lit up along the ceiling, illuminating a long corridor ahead of him. A vaguely humanoid figure stood at the end. He tapped at his omni-tool again and the figure shifted smoothly forward on a hidden track, the lights glinting off the highly polished armor of the target dummy as it moved. When the dummy came to a stop Mason lifted the pistol in both hands and aimed, then squeezed off a series of shots. A pleased smile tugged at his mouth when each small slug hit home with deadly accuracy.

"Fucking love Rosenkov," he said softly to himself in a deep and slightly gravelly voice. With a quick twitch of his thumb against a switch on the pistol's grip, the thermal clip ejected and clattered to the floor. He spent a few moments delicately cleaning and polishing the weapon as though it were a priceless artifact before placing it back into its resting place and closing up the crate again.

He checked the time at his wrist. Two more hours until the customer was due to arrive and pick up the goods.

Today's customer was an Eclipse lieutenant he'd met only once but had been impressed with enough to agree to do business. Smuggling brand new weapons past Citadel customs had become a bit of a hobby for him since he'd taken up residence in the station's Lower Wards. He loved the subtle thrill he got from mapping out the details with his contact at the manufacturer, following the virtual path of the order through shipping where a clerk he'd paid off would 'accidentally' transpose a couple numbers, causing the shipment to get diverted. His order would ultimately end up arriving with a shipment of stuffed pyjak dolls or crates full of the latest issue of Fornax. Other carefully managed bribes would get the goods to his door with very little actual footwork on his part. His accountant, a crafty little volus named Biran, made it look like he was simply overcharging for his tattoos, but his skill in that area justified the illusion without him actually having to scalp people for blackwork.

Occasionally a new customer might introduce themselves to him, but rarely were they as intriguing as the asari mercenary he was about to complete this particular transaction with. He'd been impressed with more than just her combat prowess the night she found him drinking in Purgatory and proposed their arrangement. Vivid memories of their whiskey-infused tryst traipsed through his head, her soft blue lips whispering teasing kisses against his tattooed skin, her fingertips delicately tracing each of his many scars and the outlines of the elaborate black designs that covered much of his body. He knew she was just trying to sweeten the deal, and sweeten it she had. A low rumble escaped his muscular chest at the memory, and he rubbed a calloused hand over his close-cropped scalp. He was looking forward to returning the favor in kind that afternoon, if she was game.

In the meantime he decided he'd squeeze in a tamer type of workout, try to burn off a little excess energy.

The blinking orange light on his terminal caught his attention before he had a chance to head back upstairs. Right, the message from the journalist. Why she wanted an interview with him was a mystery. He supposed he'd acquired a pretty good reputation as an artist since moving to the Citadel's Lower Wards a few years back. The journalist said it was a puff piece on local businesses. Hell, he supposed a little publicity couldn't hurt, though he preferred to rely on word of mouth. Or word of skin. His customers were walking advertisements for his work, after all.

He sat down at the terminal and pulled up the message, then began typing his reply to the preliminary questions. He'd still have time for that workout afterwards.

* * *

**Name:**

Mason Black

**Age (approximate):**

30-something

**Race:**

Human (with some latino blood but I'm not sure I'd count that since it doesn't show and who the fuck cares anymore anyway?)

**Gender (if applicable):**

Male, last time I checked. Yeah, still male.

**Job, usual activities, and/or talents:**

Artist/gun for hire (take that however you want to, sweetness). I hate going out anymore, though - seems like C-Sec has it in for me for some reason, fuckers keep arresting me for being 'drunk and disorderly'. You're better off just asking for a tattoo so I don't end up disturbing the peace. I also have a little side business as a supplier of fine weaponry to the... ah... _needy_. If you ask nicely I'll show you my stock in the basement of my tattoo shop. I'm really fucking good at my job. Not just tattooing, but all of them. And I'm not telling you all of them, either. Let's just say I'm a jack of all trades. I'm especially good at tattooing - best in the galaxy some say - and I'm good at selling guns. And I'm really good at... other things. Just ask the dancers at Purgatory what I'm good at. Oh, and I have a perfect memory; 'eidetic' was the word the Alliance docs used when I first enlisted. It comes in handy in my line of work, but it can be a curse, too. There are some things a man like me would just as soon forget.

**Enjoys:**

Asari. I love blue... and if you've never tasted a little azure you don't know what you're missing. I love expensive whiskey and fine art, too. And the word "fuck" (in case you hadn't noticed). I'm a fucking walking contradiction, so sue me.

**Dislikes:**

Tough question. I have quite a collection, but my old favorites are infidelity, Cerberus, domestic abuse, crying girls (or the reasons they cry, which I always hope aren't my fault but try to fix anyway). And batarians. Call me a racist fuck but I have yet to meet a batarian who changed my mind, and I've met my share.

**Personality traits:**

What is this, a fucking job interview? When I was eighteen I had a hot piece of ass beating down my door to fuck her after I gave her a tattoo. Okay, that's an exaggeration... I opened the door before she could beat it down. That's not a personality trait though... I'm a sucker for women. Especially pretty ones in distress. I prefer it if their 'distress' is that they need to get laid, but most often that's not the case. Usually they've got some asswipe giving them shit, or they just jumped through a fucking plate glass window because some crime lord picked a bad time to offer them a job. Long story.

**Inner conflicts:**

As much as I love women, I'm a fucking disaster when it comes to relationships. The ones I've been able to land for any length of time have been 1) already involved with jealous, murderous assholes, 2) too good for me and dumped me for someone richer and/or more together professionally, 3) 'just friends' - a line that if you cross ends up being hell on a working partnership if things don't work out, 4) savagely murdered by batarian slavers. So maybe I'm a tad biased against batarians for a reason. A really fucking good reason, if you ask me.

**Greatest wish:**

To own a nice quiet tattoo shop and settle down with that one girl that got away. I guess I'm halfway there. I just need to find the girl, but she dropped off the radar last time I went looking. She's not one on the list of inner conflicts. She's the only one I got right, but the situation was beyond our control. Almost twenty years and I still miss her. I sure hope to fuck slavers didn't get to her somehow, too.

**Brief history:**

I grew up in the shitty part of Los Angeles. Mom died when I was 17. Dad was an abusive asshole who walked out on me and my sister not long after. Sis was a brainchild and got lucky when some rich tycoon fell in love with her. I'd have just said rich asshole, but he's actually a good guy, makes my sister really happy. So, I love the guy for that. I joined the Alliance when I was 18. Spent some time with the Blue Suns after I left the Alliance years later. That was Z's - I mean Zaeed's fault. He's probably my closest friend, even though we hardly see each other since I moved to the Citadel. Fucker's saved my life once or twice. And I've returned the favor at least once when that Vido fucker decided he'd rather run the Suns on his own. I never trusted him. The upside is that I can finally tell Z he's an uglier bastard than I am. His little face lift trumps all the scars I've gathered over the years.

**Where is your OC on the paragon/renegade meter?:**

A bit left of center. If you consider Paragon to be on the right. I try to do the right thing, but what's 'right' and what's 'legal' aren't necessarily perfectly aligned. And I'll always do what needs to be done to help out a friend.

**Which character(s) from Mass Effect would you say your OC is most like, and why?:**

Shepard, but on a smaller scale. I'm no fucking hero, but I've looked death in the eye on plenty occasions and laughed in its face. Hell, I've even died once, but it didn't take. That's what the Alliance thinks, anyway. If you go looking for Mason Black in their records, he doesn't exist. All they know is who I used to be, not the man I am now. Who I used to be doesn't matter any more. There's only one person left in the galaxy who cares who I was... at least I hope he's still out there, but we lost touch and after all the shit that's happened it's possible he's gone, too. I can still hope, though. Good friends are worth keeping a candle burning.

**If your OC meets Shepard, what's the first thing your character might say?:**

"You don't look like a commander to me." Well, she doesn't. Not with a rack that nice. I bet she smells nice, too. And I bet she... ah, I'd better quit while I'm ahead. Chasing her would be akin to flying too close to the sun, and I've learned that lesson many times over.

* * *

**Additional physical characteristics:**

Height: 196cm

Weight: Around 115kg, mostly muscle

Eye color: Steel grey

Hair color: Brown, cropped short to military regs

Common attire: Black t-shirt and cargo pants

Distinguishing Marks/Features:

Cleft chin.

Tattoos, tattoos, tattoos, all blackwork, except for the Blue Suns tattoo on the side of his neck. Also immediately visible are two thick matching bands beginning around his forearms and extending past his elbows with intricate geometric/tribal patterns inscribed within them.

Several noticeable facial scars, one long one that extends along the right side of his jawbone ending at his chin, one jagged one on his right cheekbone beneath his eye, and one smaller one one his forehead over his left eye, cutting through one eyebrow. There are others, too, but these are the ones people notice first. These scars are over 10 years old, so slightly faded but still visible.


End file.
